The Fallen Angel
by Ithilmir
Summary: It's 1835. A young sergeant de ville is being haunted by a ghost from the past. Rated T just to be on the safe side. Chapter 4 now up!
1. Prologue

**A/N:** This story is inspired by the poem "Archangel" by Mersault. Of all the poems that have been written about Javert's suicide (and what may come after) I think this is one of the most sincere, most reflective of all I have ever read. This will be multiple chapters, and has been undertaken with the intent of being serious, but if it fails then my apologies in advance.

N.B. I now know from a comment passed in one of AmZ's stories that inspectors didn't wear uniform. However, it's my reasoning that they would have worn something to distinguish themselves from normal citizens, although it may not have been 'uniform' in the traditional sense. Here, for want of a better word, this will be referred to as uniform. I may be wrong though. I'm also not sure whether I'm right in the role of a sergeant-de-ville, but I'm doing the best I can.

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1. Prologue

Paris 1835

It was two o'clock in the morning on 7th June, 1835. Two sergeants-de-villes were walking along the Quai des Gevres near the Île de la Cité. To their left the River Seine snaked its way through the city, its surface a distorted mirror of black glass, reflecting the moon above, who tonight only condescended to show half her face. It had been quiet so far, but there was still enough night left for something to happen. Something did.

In the dim light they spotted two men crouched down suspiciously near a moored-up boat. The Sergeant nudged his companion and they slid the dark shutters over their lanterns. Silently they approached to get a better look. The two rogues (and from their dress and language they were clearly rogues) were extracting pieces of silverware from a grubby old hessian sack; spoils from a job they'd just done on a nearby house. The two officers looked at each other, nodded, then stepped out of the shadows, snapping open the shutters and bathing the pair of crooks in an eerie light.

"Good evening, gentlemen," said the Sergeant. "And what do we have here?"

Surprised, the two crooks scrambled up and legged it, abandoning their prize. One sergeant took possession of the silver and the other started to run after them, but about two seconds later there was a scream from up ahead. In the dimness they saw the thieves cowering on the ground, screaming in fear, hands clasped imploringly in prayer. Over them stood the gigantic, dark figure of a man. The Sergeant gasped. The man's face was pale and his eyes dark hollows that sank into an abyss. He had long, steely grey hair that would have been neatly tied back in a black ribbon, except it was half-fallen and lank as if wet. He was wearing the clothes of a police inspector; but they were quite a few years behind current fashion. He looked down at the crooks at his feet coldly, disinterested, then looked back up to the policemen. His eyes momentarily met those of the Sergeant, then he turned and disappeared into the darkness.

Astounded, the policemen stood stock-still, as if fear and befuddlement had in that moment turned them to stone. Then they came to their senses, took hold of the petrified criminals, hauled them unresistingly up off the ground, picked up the sack containing the stolen silver and headed for the post in the Place du Châtelet. All the way there the behaviour of the men was frighteningly good; they walked along without hesitation or resistance, just silently weeping or at intervals crying out; "Oh God! Mercy save us! Hell has been let loose on this earth!"

It had turned into a very strange night indeed.


	2. An Unusual Identity Parade

**A/N:** Just a quick note; the Inspector mentioned here is not Javert, as you will find out. The policemen who are main characters are indicated by capital letters at the beginning of their rank (e.g. Sergeant). This may be a bit confusing to start with, but hopefully it'll become clearer as it goes along. R&R s'il vous plait; I like to know what people think. There is a captain in here because I needed a rank below the Inspector, but superior to the Sergeant.

Bleurgh… Don't you just hate it when your teabag has a hole in it and deposits leaves at the bottom of your mug:P

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2. An Unusual Identity Parade

The criminals had been conveyed back to the post and were now safely locked away in the cells, along with the silver having been returned to the rightful owners, and now the Sergeant was giving a verbal report to the captain who had charge of the post that evening, who was taking notes.

"And you say they stopped running when they saw him?"

"That's right, sir," said the Sergeant. "But they didn't just stop running; they practically fell down on their knees and screamed! They were crying out stuff like 'Oh Jesus, save us!' and saying that Satan himself was walking."

"Whereabouts was he standing in relation to you?"

"About three yards away, just by an overturned rowing boat; about a yard or so away from the edge of the bridge. He was wearing the clothes of an inspector and also a large black greatcoat, but it was an old-fashioned one; a couple of decades out of date I'd say, actually, if a bit dishevelled. I swear I've never seen him around before."

At that moment the glass panelled door to the street opened and an inspector walked in, taking his hat off and shivering slightly. The Captain looked up from his notes and stood up from the desk.

"Good evening, monsieur."

"Good evening, captain," said the Inspector, sitting down at another desk with a sigh. "Suddenly turned cold out. Don't mind me; I've just come out to escape madame for a couple of hours."

"So," said the Captain, turning back to the Sergeant. "What was this man doing to have frightened them so much?"

"That's it; he didn't really do anything," said the Sergeant, shrugging slightly. "He just stood there. I didn't think seeing a police inspector could provoke that strong a reaction!"

"What's this?" asked the Inspector, leaning forward on the desk.

"Couple of crooks that got arrested down by the Pont de Notre Dame, sir," said the Captain. "They'd been pinching some silver, but the sergeant here says that there was also this police inspector that half scared them to death. You should have seen them when they were brought in, sir; gentle as lambs! They're still quiet as mice even now."

"Intriguing," said the Inspector, frowning. "Anyone we know?"

"Just what we're trying to find out, sir," said the Sergeant.

"What did he look like?"

"I'd say he was in his late 40s, early 50s. Tall – 'tall' as in 'gigantic'. Strong build, slim, long grey hair half fallen out of a black ribbon, side-whiskers…"

The Captain's pen poised unsteadily in its routine motions over the paper.

"Anything else?" he asked, attempting to make his voice sound casual.

"Well, he looked sort of… wet."

"Wet?"

"Yes. Like he'd been out in a heavy rain shower, or just pulled himself out of the River."

The Captain and the Inspector exchanged glances.

"Also," continued the Sergeant, fast losing his nerve at the looks he was getting from his superiors. "I don't know whether it's of any practical value, but there was something about his face that was strange; something unreal. He was pale, very pale, as if he'd been out in the cold too long. And there was something not right about his eyes; they were dark, _really_ dark. I'd take my oath there was no colour in them at all!"

Silence. Slowly the Captain put down his pen and looked the Sergeant straight in the eyes.

"Sergeant," he said solemnly. "Are you sure of what you have just told the Inspector and I? Could you swear by every detail?"

"Oh yes, sir!" the Sergeant exclaimed. "Every word!"

The Captain frowned at him for a minute, then picked up the bundle of keys to the cells and disappeared down the steps. The Inspector sat quite silent, perfectly still. All colour had drained from his face and he looked as if he was about to be violently sick. He reminded the Sergeant of the colour of the wet policeman's face; that corpse-like pallor and those shadowy eyes. The look; he'd never forget it so long as he lived – a despairing glance, a face that had often been severe now closed to the world around it, barely aware of anything outside his own head.

A few moments later the Captain returned and went over to one of the many cabinets in which were kept various files of cases, criminals and police personnel. He extracted a rather thin file and gently presented it to the Inspector. The Inspector didn't take it, but looked at the cover in horror, then up disbelievingly into the Captain's face as if to say 'Are you mad?'

The Captain simply responded with the words "I've just asked. They swear it's him."

"But how?" the Inspector finally managed to say. "They must be mistaken! It's been three years since…"

"To the day, sir."

"Since what, sir?" asked the Sergeant, a look of confusion on his face.

"You're young, lad," the Captain said. "You weren't in the force when it happened."

"When what happened? Captain, if you know who this man is please tell me! If you're not certain then bring him in and I'll be able to tell you; I'd recognise him again if I saw him."

"Sergeant," the Inspector said slowly, a look of pity passing across his face. "I'm afraid you don't understand. We can't bring him in for questioning; it would be near impossible!"

"But why?"

"Because he's dead."

Once again silence took hold of the room. The Sergeant stood amazed, not knowing whether he had truly heard what had been said, thinking that this was some distasteful joke his superiors were having at his expense. But the look on the officers' faces told him everything. The Inspector sighed and leaned forward across the desk.

"Sergeant," he said. "You joined us a year ago, just after you'd come from Lille. This was your first time in Paris, no?"

"Y… Yes, sir."

"Then you may or may not be familiar with the events I am about to relate to you. Three years ago here there was a short-lived uprising started by students just after the death of General Lamarque. They constructed two barricades near Les Halles, the main one being in the Rue de la Chanvrerie. Naturally we sent in a man to spy on these rebels, but he was caught and very nearly executed. However, he managed to escape; no one knew exactly how, but he returned to his duties immediately after perfectly normal as if nothing had happened. Then suddenly, the day after the barricades fell, he went mad. Snapped, just like that." The Inspector clicked his fingers. "Hopped over the Pont de Notre Dame and threw himself into the River. He was found there beneath a boat in the early hours of the morning three years ago to this day."

The Sergeant opened his mouth, made a few indiscernible noises, managed to get his tongue into gear with his brain and started to rave.

"But… but! Sir, you must be wrong! Dead? It can't have been! Pont de Notre Dame? That was… no! It can't have been him! Check again, sir! I was there! It _can't_ have been him, sir!"

"Sergeant," the Inspector said flatly. "There is no inspector of police currently here in Paris that answers to your description, let alone explains the wetness, nor the dullness of the eyes or location. The man who committed suicide three years ago today was unusually tall, quite strong for his age, grey, known for his side-whiskers and dark, penetrating eyes. He was an Inspector First Class. He was 52 when he died. His name was Javert."

At the mention of the name a candle near the door guttered. The silence settled on the room like heavy snow. The Sergeant turned his frightened gaze away from the now straight candle flame back to the Inspector's face.

"Javert?" he whispered, hoarsely.

"Javert. That is the man the prisoners swear they saw."

"You've heard of Javert?" asked the Captain.

"Yes," the Sergeant said, his voice quavering. "When I was back in Lille M. Gerard often told us of notable men within the police force; Inspector Javert First Class of the Paris Prefecture was often mentioned."

"But never saw him."

"Never."

The Inspector gave a sigh and ran a worried hand through his hair.

"I came out to escape a demon," he murmured. "Not find another! The question is what to do now."

"I suggest, sir," said the Captain. "That we send some men round to dig him up; see what we can learn."

"With all due respect, sir," said the Sergeant, uncertainly. "What can we possibly learn from a corpse?"

The Captain turned and looked the Sergeant squarely in the eyes.

"We can learn if he truly is dead!"

---------

Night fell once again as the Captain, the Inspector, three policemen and the Sergeant arrived at the side of a grave in the cemetery of Père Lachaise. It was two days since the Sergeant had seen the unknown policeman by the Seine; it had taken that long to get permission for the exhumation, as it seemed everyone in the department was reluctant to handle the matter. At one end was a single stone, quite plain and carved with this simple inscription;

JAVERT  
1780 AD – 1832 AD

"That's it?" the Sergeant asked, disgusted and surprised. "_'Javert, 1780-1832'_? What happened to the epitaph? The 'In Memoriam'? For Christ's sake, there isn't even a first name!"

"Listen, mate," said one of the policemen, older then him. "This bloke died of suicide; you don't get grandeur for that! Secondly, no matter what codswallop you heard, he wasn't liked; the only mourners at his funeral were the Secretary of the Prefect, his landlady, some old gentleman who was just passing through and a captain who came because they had served together at Toulon. As for a Christian name, I don't think anyone knew he had one; didn't care! There's probably quite a few people who've pissed on this grave."

"Silence there!" shouted the Captain, fiercely. "You men, start digging! Sergeant!" he called over to the Sergeant, now white with shock. "You stand guard whilst we dig him up."

"But why stand guard, captain?"

The Captain flashed him a nasty grin.

"In case anyone decides to pop up and see what we're doing."

The men laughed and started digging, closely supervised by the Inspector. After they'd dug about a foot the Sergeant turned away. He started to wander amongst the gravestones, reading the inscriptions where he could make them out, pulling his coat tighter around him now and then to keep out the chill night air. He had not gone far when something caught his eye.

In a deserted corner of the cemetery, near an old wall with ivy curling up it stood a big yew tree, dark and sinister in the half-light. For some reason or other he headed over to the tree, and as he drew nearer found a large stone slab there beneath it. The stone was plain, no ornament, no inscription; a stone just large enough to cover a man and simply carved to serve its purpose. He bent down to examine the stone closer. In the light of his lantern he could just make out some words that had been chalked on there, but much of it had faded away.

"He …ps. Alt…ou… so…h he was den…

He lived; and wh… love …ft …, died.

It hap…ned of i… in … cal…y

Th…n the ev…ing …ht-time…llows day."

The Sergeant straightened up and looked down at the stone. A wry smile spread across his face.

"Great men seem to be buried with little care," he said, more to the stone then to anyone in particular. "What were you? An emperor?"

Suddenly he became aware he was not alone. Hardly daring to breathe, he slowly lifted his gaze up from the stone. There on the opposite side of the grave stood the Unknown Inspector. Javert. He looked as he had looked before; tall, wet, sullen and pale. His dark eyes were fixed on those of the Sergeant, dully searching his face. Searching for what, he didn't know, just… searching.

"What are you?" the Sergeant asked, his voice hoarse from fear.

Javert just kept on looking at him. There didn't seem to be any thought or reasoning behind the gaze, just instinct.

"What is it you want?" the Sergeant asked again, his voice growing more certain. "Why have you come to me?"

Javert looked away, uninterested. He turned his gaze down to the gravestone. His eyes became sadder, forlorn, like a… like a dog.

Dog?

The Sergeant put on what he hoped was a friendly, casual sort of smile.

"Friend of yours, was he?"

Silence. Still Javert looked down at the stone. The breeze sighed through the branches of the tree overhead; it was an answer, or an attempt to answer, but it told him nothing.

"Javert, talk to me, please!" he cried, exasperated. "I want to help you, but I cannot unless you speak! Please, talk to me!"

At the sound of his name the inspector looked up. There was a mixture of surprise and puzzlement on his face, as if the mention of his name were something of a shock. He seemed to understand, but not quite. A flicker of consciousness appeared in his eyes, his lips moved slightly…

"Sergeant!"

The Sergeant whipped round to see the dim form of the Captain approaching through the gravestones. He turned back quickly to Javert; but he had gone.

"Sergeant!" the Captain demanded. "What are you doing over here? Who were you talking to?"

"Damn you!" the Sergeant cried, rounding on him. "Damn you to Hell and back again!"

"Sergeant!" exclaimed the Captain, outraged. "That is no way to address –"

"He was here!" the Sergeant cried. "Javert, here! Just a moment ago! He was standing on the other side of the grave! Damn it all, he was about to speak!"

The Captain turned slightly paler and looked at the distraught Sergeant warily.

"I think," he said quietly. "You had better come with me."

They returned to find that two of the policemen had dug down six foot and were now standing next to the largest coffin the Sergeant had ever seen. They looked up expectantly at the Inspector; one of them held a crowbar.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" the Inspector demanded. "Get on with it!"

Hesitantly, the policeman plied the crowbar to the black coffin lid. The wood had not yet badly rotted and after a couple of fruitless attempts the lid parted company with a loud crack and was heaved off to one side, revealing the lead inner casing. Taking out a knife, they cut along the side of the casing and peeled back the soft metal.

The smell that met their nostrils was too disgusting for words. They all clapped their hands over their noses, gasping for clean air. One of the officers down the grave vomited violently.

"That's enough!" choked the Inspector. "That's enough! Get that lid back on!"

The policemen down the grave didn't have to be told twice. They slammed the lid back on, but somewhat over zealously, and the lid broke as it came into contact with the coffin, shattering to reveal the half rotted corpse grinning menacingly, surrounded by the goo of decaying flesh. The officers panicked and started clawing at the walls of the grave, crying to their colleagues to help them up. The Sergeant, Inspector and remaining policeman up top rushed forward and hauled them out, grabbed the shovels and started to feverishly cover the ghastly carcass without the least ceremony.

The Sergeant turned from the frantic actions to bury the earthly remains of Inspector Javert and saw the Captain standing perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the fast-disappearing body beneath the soil.

"Well," the Inspector said, straightening his jacket and trying to regain his dignity. "I think we have discovered all we can here, wouldn't you say, captain?"

"I would say so indeed, sir," said the Captain, his voice official and perfectly clipped. "Men, grab your tools and neaten up that earth! You there, stop vomiting! Remember you are an officer of the Law and it ain't genteel to go throwing up in a cemetery. Now get moving, at the double!"

As the company finished up and headed for the gates of the cemetery, the Sergeant could not help but glance once again at the unnamed grave under the tree. Of course they wouldn't have found anything at Javert's grave; that wasn't where they should be looking. No, whatever they needed to find was elsewhere; a secret kept by whoever lay under that stone. He decided he would somehow have to find out who was buried there; that was the key to the mystery.

As he passed through the gates, ignoring the gabblings and occasional retching sounds from the gendarme next to him, another thing kept nagging at the back of his mind. In the darkness he couldn't be sure, but he thought he'd seen the Captain crying.


	3. The One Is Squared Again

**A/N:** Apologies all round for the first version of this. Slightly more polished version here. R&R. This chapter onwards AmZ has kindly offered to be my beta reader.

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The Inspector, Sergeant and Captain were seated in the office once more. It was coming up to dawn, but after their little episode in the cemetery no one had felt like sleeping, so they had re-convened back at the post.

"Well," said the Inspector at length. "It would seem that the aforesaid Inspector Javert is well and truly gone. So where does that leave us?

"Monsieur," said the Sergeant slowly. "I'll accept that Inspector Javert has been dead these past three years; but I still have reason to believe that the… _man_ I saw was Javert."

"What?" The Inspector sat up in his chair. "Are you saying what you, and so far _only_ you, have seen is the ghost of Inspector Javert?"

"That is precisely what I'm saying."

"Ludicrous!"

"No, sir. It's not." The Sergeantdrew a deep breath. "The whole point of Christian burial is to allow the dead to go on. I am compelled to think the soul of Javert has gone on existing, but due to his unnatural and violent death cannot pass on. He patrols the streets because it's the only thing he knew in life. I think he's been wandering so long he's forgotten why he's patrolling, maybe forgotten who he was – doesn't care anymore. He sees what is going on but he doesn't really understand; like a long, drawn-out nightmare that will never end."

He paused.

"I know it may seem far-fetched and absurd – I still don't believe it totally yet – but the way this… apparition moves, looks and appears is not the way a living man moves or appears."

Here the Sergeant hesitated, as if to gather his thoughts.

"I think," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. "He is searching for a way to pass on."

The room descended into silence once more. The Captain raised his head.

"Then," he said. "It seems he is looking for the impossible."

"But the question is," said the Inspector. "_If_ supposing for the moment you are right in your conclusion, sergeant, why does he choose to appear now? What does he think we can do?"

"I'm not sure, but when I saw him in the cemetery he was looking at an unmarked grave," said the Sergeant. "His gaze was… forlorn. I have a feeling that whatever it is that we need to find is somehow connected with whoever was buried there."

The Captain snorted.

"What do you want us to do?" he said bitterly. "We can't go digging up every grave in Père Lachaise!"

"I'm not suggesting we do! But if we just leave the matter, who knows what may happen?"

There was a pause as the Inspector glanced at the desk thoughtfully. A moment later the Sergeant looked at his superiors with a solemn expression on his face.

"If this is a spirit we are truly dealing with," he said quietly. "We could do no worse than hold a séance."

"What?" The Captain let out a laugh. "Are you potty?"

"Honestly, sergeant, you can't seriously believe in all that rubbish?" the Inspector said, clear distain in his voice.

"Why not?"

"I've seen the kind of people who go to those things. It truly is pathetic. Mainly women grieving for a loved one and usually just a few cheap tricks to 'comfort' them!"

"But, sir," said the Sergeant. "In the remotest chance that we could summon him it would be worth it. A spirit is a spirit as far as I'm aware."

"If I didn't know any better, sergeant," said the Inspector, narrowing his eyes. "I would say the only 'spirits' you've seen are at the bottom of a glass."

"Monsieur!"

"Be serious, man. So far the only person convinced of the existence of this apparition is you. This could all be a figment of your imagination."

"With all due respect, monsieur," said the Sergeant, stiffly. "I might remind you that there are two men down in the cells who are able to confirm what I saw!"

"Two highly superstitious criminals," said the Inspector, shrugging. "And what about your colleague – did he see this man?"

"Yes, sir! Well, sort of… It was dark and he was a lot further off than me; but he swears he saw someone."

The Inspector raised his eyebrows and looked at the Sergeant levelly over his clasped hands.

"I see," he said slowly.

The Sergeant was getting the distinct feeling he was fighting a losing battle.

"But, inspector," he protested. "If there is any way we could possibly directly communicate with Javert, then it would be to our advantage. As the captain said, there is no way we can waste police time or manpower in digging up half the corpses in Père Lachaise. I think a séance would be the best thing."

"I take it this 'ghost' has not imparted anything to you verbally, sergeant?"

"No, sir."

"So why do you think he would be willing to talk to you now?"

"It's better than nothing, sir."

"And you have only seen this apparition twice, and both times it has appeared completely unexpectedly?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, if can't you wait to see if your 'ghost' might see fit to appear again; but I think you are going to regret it, sergeant."

"Sir," said the Captain. "With all due respect, I strongly object to this course of action – it's just plain ridiculous!"

"Your objection is noted, captain; but as long as he does it in his own time I don't see why not."

"But, sir –"

"Enough, captain. Alright, sergeant, if you think it will help – even though in my opinion you are wasting your time. Till then, we have the day-job; spirits or no! Good morning, gentlemen."

The Captain gave a slight bow of the head and shot the Sergeant a look of ill-concealed contempt before he turned and walked out of the office. The Sergeant was about to follow when the Inspector's voice held him back.

"Sergeant; a word if you please."

The Sergeant closed the door and returned to stand within a few paces of the desk.

"Sir?"

"You are set on pursuing this course of action?" said the Inspector, leaning back in his chair.

"Yes, sir."

"Then in that case there is a woman of my wife's acquaintance who claims to be a 'medium' of sorts; you could do no worse than try her. She usually holds a meet on Wednesday nights, so that's tomorrow. Be there 7 o'clock prompt – dinner is at 7:30, as it is usually a social gathering. There will be ladies present, so therefore I would advise you to go in your best."

The Sergeant nodded.

"Thank you, sir."

He turned to leave, hand poised on the doorknob, when the Inspector's voice once more cut the air.

"Oh, and sergeant; best of luck. In my opinion you're going to need it."


	4. A Séance and a Pocket Watch

**A/N:** Sorry this has taken so long to materialise; exams, rehearsals, writers' block, job hunting, reading… Yep, a lot can happen in two years. Anyway, I've tried my best with this chapter. The Medium is based heavily on my version of Prof. Trelawney from _"Harry Potter"_; I never did like her.

WARNING: Slightly slashy undertones, but only if you look for them. (Rather like the Brick then…)

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4. A Séance and a Pocket Watch

The clock struck seven as the Sergeant cautiously rapped the brass doorknocker against the woodwork. He was not in the habit of frequenting the more fashionable areas of the city, especially for social reasons. Indeed, he had not yet even entered the house and already he felt far out of his depth. He was also feeling decidedly uncomfortable. Being on relatively low pay and not really owning a set of 'best' clothes he had borrowed some off a slightly wealthier colleague; however, this unfortunately meant everything was about one and a half sizes too big, which gave him the appearance of a moderately well-off scarecrow. After a few uneasy moments the door swung open and he was met by an impressive brown moustache; attached to it was a rather stern-faced footman. The man looked the Sergeant up and down with clear disapproval, taking in his dishevelled appearance and young face. Eventually he spoke.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"I'm, I'm here for the meet," said the Sergeant, the uncertainty all too clear in his voice. He was finding it impossible to tear his gaze away from the moustache. "I _have_ got the right house, haven't I?"

"Indeed you have, sir," said the footman. "Does sir have a card?"

"Um, no. Should I?"

The footman raised his eyebrows slightly, but just at that moment there was an irritated cry from inside the house.

"Oh, for pity's sake! Don't just stand there, man; let the poor sod in!"

The footman stood as rigidly in the doorway as before, seemingly unperturbed by the remark from the unseen speaker, although the Sergeant swore he could detect a slight twitch in the man's right cheek.

"This way if you please, sir."

The Sergeant stepped into the hall and followed the footman into what appeared to be the salon. Before him was a range of assorted petit bourgeoisie, four women and two men, seated or standing. As he entered the room, one of the men – middle-aged, grey with copious amounts of facial hair – stood up from the settee, opening his arms in greeting.

"Ah, so he finally arrives!" he cried, a grin on his face to rival a shark. "Welcome, sergeant; we've been expecting you."

The Sergeant received the heftiest jovial slap on the back he'd ever experienced. It was like being hit with a tree trunk.

"Not at all, sir," the Sergeant wheezed, straitening himself as best he could. "You'll pardon my asking, monsieur, but… how did you know I was a sergeant?"

"My dear boy, you've got it practically stamped on your forehead! Always tell the uniform sort, eh?"

"Indeed, monsieur. Indeed."

"And this," the Major continued, seemingly oblivious to the Sergeant's discomfort. "This is our delightful hostess for the evening. Madame, may I introduce the sergeant here."

He held his hand out to an older woman seated on the couch, who took it with a grimacing smile that was probably meant to be courteous.

"You are most welcome, sergeant," she said airily, getting to her feet and approaching. "It is always wonderful to see a new face; our little circle can get quite stagnant at times. You bring such a fascinating aura into the room – positively electric!"

"Thank you, madame," said the Sergeant hesitantly; he wasn't sure whether the remark was intended to be a compliment or not. On closer inspection the Medium was probably in her late forties, well past her prime, with grizzling mousey-brown hair, a wide mouth and dark brown googly eyes. She wore a dark green dress with far too daring a neckline for a woman of her age, and ill-matching jewellery.

"Bristling with questions," she continued in that same wispy voice. "Questions about your Inspector Javert."

The Sergeant was momentarily taken aback.

"Yes, but how did you know…?"

The Medium smiled wistfully.

"The ways of the Otherworld are always strange to those unaccustomed to them. You bear all the marks of one who has experienced an encounter with the Unearthly."

"And you believe that it is possible to contact such a spirit?"

"Oh certainly," said the Major, taking the Medium's hand in his. "And of course, madame is a very gifted woman; one of the most gifted I have ever come across."

The wicked grin and simpering smile between the two was enough to give the Sergeant an idea how exactly madame was 'gifted'. It also made him feel slightly queasy.

"But enough introductions!" cried the Medium. "Please, feel free to mingle with the other guests. Mingle, dear boy! Dinner will be served shortly, as soon as Sarah has rescued the soufflé."

Left to his own devices, the Sergeant cast a glance around the other occupants of the room; a rather drab, ordinary crowd. He felt somewhat disappointed, though he didn't know exactly what he had been hoping for. However his heart skipped a beat as his gaze swept over to the fireplace, where leaning against the mantelpiece he saw a very familiar, wholly unexpected figure.

"Captain!" the Sergeant exclaimed, the astonishment clear on his face. "What are you doing here?"

The Captain gave a non-committed shrug, casually taking out his watch to check it against the mantle clock.

"Well, the Inspector suggested I might like to come along, see what goes on. I like to keep an open mind about these things."

"An open mind?" the Sergeant exclaimed in disbelief.

The Captain turned on him with a frown.

"Alright, so maybe there's something in it; but the point is someone's got to keep an eye on you," he murmured with a growl. "And I'll remind you to keep on your best behaviour; I want no talk of drowned corpses and damned police spectres here."

"But, this is a séance, sir."

"Even so," the Captain muttered, shooting a sideways glance to the other guests. "Your conduct here reflects on us all, and I don't want you upsetting the ladies with your stories."

"You said you were keeping an open mind a minute ago."

The Captain gave a disapproving snort, which the Sergeant pointedly ignored.

"And in any case, how did she know I was coming to see her about Javert?" he whispered in a furious undertone. "If that's not uncanny, God knows what is!"

"Of course she knew," the Captain said simply. "I told her just now. And if you're going to be fooled by that simple a piece of trickery, you've no business being here," he said wearily in reply to the look of surprise on the young man's face. "Go home whilst you've still got some change in your pockets."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean the first time is free; after that you are expected to 'contribute to the cause'."

An icy silence fell between the two as the Captain swilled the contents of his glass around, then drained it in one go. The Sergeant was feeling somewhat incensed by the Captain's presence, and the suggestion that he wouldn't be able to conduct himself in polite society was one that did not sit well at all. Not to mention sending another officer to mind him like a child! Did the Inspector really have that little faith in him?

"So you still think you'll find your ghost?" the Captain asked at length.

"Yes," the Sergeant said stubbornly, setting his jaw and narrowing his eyes.

"On your head be it, then," said the Captain, moving off in the direction of the dining room. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

The Sergeant didn't recall much of the conversation over dinner. He vaguely remembered being engaged for some length of time in a one-sided dialogue with the pretty young mademoiselle sitting next to him; her telling him in very great detail of her beloved sister departed several years ago of the tuberculosis, how it had broken both her and dear Aunt Vienne's heart and she was hoping to come in contact with her spirit. It was still in this general fug of discontent that he followed the others into the salon. The room had been rearranged so a large circular table stood in the centre, a pentagram and a variety of strange symbols chalked across its surface, set with seven chairs. The Medium seated herself in the most ornate of the seven and held out her hands, palms upward.

"Come," she said. "Let us take our place and join hands. The spirit world draws closer by the second."

They took their places at the table and gingerly joined hands. The Sergeant looked across to the Captain with a wary glance, then back to the Medium. She was sitting up straight, her head back and eyes closed, breathing heavily.

"Is there anybody there?" she asked dreamily. "Who is there?"

There was a moment's silence in which everybody nervously looked at one another across the table. The Medium spoke again.

"I call upon the spirit of one who is restless," she said. "I call upon the spirit of Inspector Javert. Javert, I summon you!"

There was a momentary silence in which the air of the room seemed to grow more intense. The Sergeant was feeling decidedly uncomfortable.

"I summon you!"

There was a faint whispering in the room, the words of which couldn't be made out. The candles guttered and the whispering slowly rose till it became a growl. The Sergeant took a sharp intake of breath, not immediately able to believe what he was seeing. Within the circle stood the spirit of Javert; wet, pale and dishevelled as before. The Sergeant quickly looked around the room to see the reaction of the other guests; but he seemed to be the only one to have noticed. Everyone else was either looking at each other, casting timid glances into the dark corners of the room or staring fixedly at the Medium, who at this current moment was sitting bolt upright, eyes half-closed, ample bosom heaving as she drew breath in noisily through her nostrils. In desperation he turned to the Captain to try and catch his eye.

Meanwhile Javert was looking around the room, clearly baffled by the situation. He turned and caught sight of the Medium and a look of anger slowly came to that so usually blank, blanched face.

"Peace to you," said the Medium, seemingly ignoring the fact that the spirit in front of her looked anything but peaceful. "We have drawn you here to question you. You are bound by this circle until you answer. Why have you come back to haunt us? What is it that does not let you rest?"

The spirit stared at her, uncomprehending. He looked around again, this time at the table, trying to find a gap in the chalked symbol through which he could exit.

Having managed at last to get the Captain's attention, the Sergeant was now doing his utmost to communicate the spirit's presence to his superior without breaking the circle of hands. After an initial questioning frown, the Captain raised his eyebrows and fixed him with a warning glare.

"Answer me!" said the Medium, her voice becoming more forceful. To his confoundment, the Sergeant noticed that though addressing Javert, the Medium's ethereal gaze was locked on a patch of wallpaper about a foot past his left shoulder.

"Speak, Javert!" she commanded, her voice rising to an impressively melodramatic pitch. "I command you to speak!"

Suddenly from out the farthest corner of the room there was a faint whispering, the words of which could not be defined. The Sergeant looked at Javert, who looked at him with a mixture of anger and confusion. On her part, the Medium was beside herself; drawing in deep breaths, sighing and moaning, her head lolling from side to side. The Captain was mouthing something to the Sergeant, which if it were vocalised the Sergeant expected would contain a decent amount of the more colourful expletives.

Javert was still trying to escape, but each time he approached the boundary of the pentagram he was thrown back as if by some invisible force, the last attempt bringing him to his knees, clutching his head, his shoulders shaking from what the Sergeant could only assume was fury or grief. Crawling on all fours, the spectre dragged himself across to where the Captain was sitting oblivious, stretching out a hand to touch him as if pleading; but as soon as it touched the chalk boundary he pulled it away as if it'd been burnt, tears streaming from those hollow eyes. The Sergeant sat frozen in horror, appalled at what he was seeing.

"Stop!" he cried. "Please, stop! You're hurting him!"

"Be silent!" commanded the Medium. "I must have silence!"

"But look at him!"

By this point all of the guests had turned to look at the Sergeant, confused, worried and frightened expressions on there faces.

"At whom?" asked the Major.

"At what?" asked the Captain, seizing the opportunity to speak.

"Javert!" The Sergeant gestured with a nod of his head, his hands being currently engaged. "He's right there in front of you! I can see him clear as day!"

"Sergeant," the Captain said, firmly. "There is no one there."

"But there is!" the Sergeant insisted. "He's on his knees! He's weeping!"

"Bless me, the man's mad!" one of the women whispered to her neighbour.

The Sergeant sat astounded as he looked at the Medium, then to the weeping spirit, then back to the Medium again. Realisation dawned. His mouth dropped open.

"You can't see him, can you?"

The Medium suddenly looked slightly uneasy.

"The spirit world does not always take corporeal form," she stuttered. "To the spirit the body is but a shell, and so it is not required to take on its mortal shape."

"Oh, how convenient, madame!"

"Silence!" the Medium barked sharply. "What do you know of matters of the Otherworld?"

The Sergeant looked back to Javert. His eyes darted around the room to the expressions that were being cast at him; to the Medium, to the Captain, round to the Major, then back to meet those dark, piercing eyes. They screamed to him.

"Enough!"

The Sergeant leapt from his seat, breaking the circle of hands, leant forward and rubbed out a section of the pentagram. All at once Javert got up, his form dissipating into thousands of dust-like particles. A fierce wind whipped up around them making people scream and shout. Pictures smashed, the fire went out, chairs and furniture were knocked over; a hideous call shrieked through the air, piercing through the body and freezing the blood. The room was in chaos, then in a final burst of energy the windows all shattered, the lights went out, the chandelier exploded in a shower of crystal and hot wax as the whole room was plunged into blackness.

Everyone screamed. The Sergeant could hear people stumbling around and someone calling for a light. The servants came in with two silver candelabras and set them down on the table, then hurried away to fetch more. In the dingy half-light the scene could just be made out. The room looked as if it'd been hit by a mortar; furniture and ornaments smashed, windows shattered, curtains torn, pictures slashed, dents in the wall, plaster dust and crystal all over the table and floor. The Major was fussing over the unconscious Medium who was lying on the carpet, her wispy hair completely dishevelled. He looked up and saw the pale-faced Sergeant and his whiskery features formed into an expression of pure fury.

"Look what you've done!" he roared. "You imbecile; you could have killed her!"

"Good!" exclaimed the Sergeant. "It's just what the old bat deserves! She had no idea what she was doing, and all the time she had him trapped! The whole point that he is restless is because no one cared, and it stops now! Good evening, monsieur."

With that he stormed out of the salon, through the hallway and out into the night. Once in the street he took a deep breath of the cool air to calm himself… then hung his head in his hands and groaned. The heat of the moment already leaving him, it was now occurring to him that storming out in such a manner would not reflect well on him or the service. The Inspector would not be pleased. He really wouldn't be pleased.

"_Oh, fuck!"_

He was in the process of trying to gouge out his eyes with his fingernails when he heard footsteps approaching behind him.

"Why did you do that?" asked the Captain.

The Sergeant didn't bother to turn around. He dropped his hands and straitened, raising his head to look at the clear starry sky.

"He was one of the best detectives alive," he said quietly, forcing himself to try and regain some form of composure. "But when in one moment of madness he commits suicide no one asks why, no one investigates; they all move on and forget him like they would forget a nightmare, almost obliterating his entire existence. They don't even bother to find out if there was a name to carve on his tombstone."

"It's happened to others," said the Captain bluntly. "Not just Javert. Think of the poor sods that get chucked in the common graves."

"What does it matter?" the Sergeant snarled, rounding on him. "You couldn't care less whether he burned in hell or not! You're just like them!"

The Captain stood still for a moment, his face blank. He seemed to be momentarily taken back by the younger man's sudden hostility. When he spoke again his voice was almost a whisper.

"There's a lot you don't know about Javert," he said quietly. "A lot you can't know; he saw to that. But I'll let you know that I do care. I probably care more than you do, lad."

The Sergeant turned away disdainfully.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes."

There was an uneasy pause, then the Captain spoke again, his voice as before.

"His name was Phillipe; Phillipe Antoine Javert."

There was a silence as the name hung uneasily in the cool night air. The Sergeant slowly turned back to the Captain, hardly daring to breathe.

"W… What did you say?"

"Rightly it was Valentin," said the Captain, continuing in the same level tone, as if he were giving a report. "That was his mother for you. He chose Phillipe for himself, though; can't say I blamed him, really."

There was a short silence in which the Sergeant stared at the paving slabs in embarrassment.

"Come on, let's walk."

Feeling completely lost and incapable of comprehending anything further that was happening to him, the Sergeant mutely followed the Captain. He didn't take any notice of his surroundings as he let himself be led through various backstreets, boulevards, squares and alleyways; so when he was awakened from his reverie by the sound of running water, he was surprised to see they were standing about a third of the way onto the Pont de Notre Dame.

"This is where he jumped," said the Captain, placing a hand on the smooth stones of the parapet. "They found his hat and cane here the next morning, shortly before they discovered the body. Climbed up here and just let himself fall."

The Sergeant dared to look over the side of the bridge to the black surface of the River. The water flowed almost silently; the gently swirling surface, almost glass-like, he knew to be fatally deceptive. The three years he had been in Paris he had extracted a number of corpses from this stretch of water, some of which had been kept down for weeks on end. A man who jumped in here, no matter how strong a swimmer, could not have come out alive.

"They were sure it was him?"

"Weren't many bodies like Javert around," said the Captain simply. "Still aren't. His was a face you could never forget, not in life or death."

He leaned against the parapet, his back to the River, shoved his hands in his pockets and tilted his head back to gaze at the stars overhead. A few minutes passed in silence, the Sergeant staring down at the water feeling very lost and the Captain contemplating the heavens. It was a few minutes more before the Captain spoke again.

"You were told that at his funeral there were only a few people, one of which a captain. You will probably have guessed that I was that captain."

The Sergeant lifted his eyes to stare at his superior. Tonight's events had so overwhelmed him that by this point it seemed the world had left him behind.

"But… why?" was all he could ask.

"We were friends," said the Captain, a wry smile curling at his lips, not lowering his eyes from the sky. "Particular friends, as we said back then. Well, I say that we were; it was a long time ago."

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Didn't think you were this bent on finding out," said the Captain, shifting himself a little against the stone. "There were a group of us back then at Toulon. Good times, they were; drinking houses, cafés, laughter and the general carelessness of youth…"

The Captain sighed and shook his head, the smile once again lifting the corners of his mouth.

"We were inseparable; went everywhere together, did everything together. Never thought it could end. Then one day Javert was transferred from the prison, and after that we heard nothing; no letters, no news… he just simply vanished. Wasn't till years later that I finally saw him again, here in Paris. It'd been, what, twenty-five years? I remember thinking how he'd changed in that time."

Here the Captain's expression suddenly darkened.

"Yes, he had changed. It was at best a tense reunion; I had probably more than a hundred questions to ask him, but every single one he avoided. He refused to talk about where he had gone or what he had been doing in those years. We were never again as close as we were at Toulon."

"Then I wasn't seeing things," said the Sergeant quietly. "In Père Lachaise, when we were burying his body; I did see you cry."

The Captain looked up sharply, fixing the Sergeant with a wary glance.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, you did. And that wasn't burying; that was desecration." He looked thoughtfully at the pavement. "I didn't think anyone saw."

"It was dark; I wasn't sure."

"You notice a lot of things, don't you?"

"I thought that was my job," the Sergeant came back defensively.

"No, lad," said the Captain. "Your job as a sergeant-de-ville is to walk around in a pretty uniform, making arrests and giving the impression there's some order in the world; it's an inspector's job to notice things."

"And what's a captain's job?"

"God help us if they ever found out!"

Once again silence settled over the pair on the bridge, both the Sergeant and the Captain momentarily withdrawing into their own heads whilst the Seine gurgled and washed below, winding away through the city into the night. It was some time before the Captain broke the silence.

"You still haven't answered my question," he said quietly. "Why did you do that; rub the section of the circle out?"

The Sergeant did his best to avoid the Captain's gaze.

"I don't know really," he admitted. "I just saw him there; he was weeping and… the look on his face…"

"I can imagine," said the Captain, with a resigned tone. "He had something about him – I remember I always found it hard to refuse him anything he asked for."

At this the Sergeant started and looked around at the Captain incredulously.

"Why? Couldn't you see him?"

"No."

With that, the Sergeant slumped against the wall with a despairing groan.

"Wonderful," he murmured. "Now you really think I'm mad."

"No, I don't think you're mad, boy," said the Captain, leaning on the wall beside him, taking a pouch of tobacco from his coat pocket and beginning to roll himself a cigarette. "Just up to your neck in something you don't understand."

The Sergeant shot him a nettled look.

"What do you mean 'don't understand'?"

"What I said," the Captain said, shrugging. "Think about it; you're communing with a dead police officer you have never seen before, never heard speak, only know by reputation and who only ever turns up unpredictably. Now if that is not a slightly unusual situation for a young man like yourself to be in, then I don't know what is."

"So you don't think I'm mad? You believe me?"

"I don't really know what I believe in terms of spirits," said the Captain, patting down his pockets for a match. "But I believe you didn't make that chandelier drop or smash those mirrors, and what's more I don't believe it was that old bag either."

He triumphantly took out a match box, struck a light on the stonework and cupped his hands over the end of the cigarette. The Sergeant returned to staring at the surface of the River.

"You know when he was trapped in the circle," said the Sergeant. "He tried to reach out and touch you. When he couldn't… He had tears in his eyes."

The Captain coughed and shot the Sergeant a sharp glance.

"I don't know why you're so insistent on this," he growled around his cigarette. "You'll be committing suicide as far as your job's concerned. Why don't you just let it go? Just be done with it and let his memory rest in peace?"

The Sergeant looked up at the Captain; a weary, but determined expression in his eyes. Everything that had happened that night had brought him here, over the Seine, and now they had come to the heart of the matter itself.

"Because he is not at rest."

For this the Captain didn't seem to have an answer. He turned to stare at the pavement.

"I'm not one for ghost stories or ghouls," he murmured, exhaling a puff of smoke. The Sergeant thought he detected a hint of unease in his voice. "But I would have trusted Javert with my life, and if he is wandering around at a loose end for some reason I trust that he would have a very good reason to appear to you."

The Sergeant shook his head.

"I wish for the life of me he'd appear to someone else," he said sullenly. "I didn't ask to be haunted."

"From what I've heard this sort of thing is rarely a matter of choice," said the Captain, flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette. He offered the tobacco pouch. "Care for a smoke? You look as if you could do with it."

The Sergeant raised his head momentarily, then shook it in refusal. The Captain made an expression of distain.

"I never trust a man without any vices," he said matter-of-factly. "Clean-cut bastards are capable of anything."

At this the Sergeant really did look up.

"I thought you said you trusted Javert?"

"Oh, he had plenty of vice," laughed the Captain darkly, spewing smoke from his nostrils. "Some more obvious than others. He was a snuff man himself, though only on a special occasion. Kept it in a nice little silver box that fitted neatly in his breast pocket. I gave him it a few years ago for his birthday; thought I might try and win back his favour. Made no difference; still, it was enough that he made good use of it. I wouldn't have expected much else really."

The Captain then seemed to be completely lost in his reverie, his eyes growing misty in his own recollections as the smoke curled around his head. At length he sighed, then reached into his waistcoat pocket.

"Here."

He pulled out what the Sergeant could only assume was a very old, dirty fishing weight and placed it in the young man's hand.

"Took it off his body. It stopped at the hour of his death. Water must have got into the casing pretty quickly; barely any damage to the mechanism at all."

On closer inspection the Sergeant could now see that it was in fact a pocket watch; a very tarnished, ancient silver pocket watch. The dial, previously white, now a murky brown colour, was permanently set at six minutes past two. Here and there were fragments of dried mud stuck to the casing, and a piece of river weed was still caught in the now solid chain.

"Thank you, sir," said the Sergeant, attempting to sound grateful. "But, why are you giving it to me?"

"He seems to have finished his business with me; 'should be yours. Who knows, he might come back for it."

The Sergeant stared down at the watch thoughtfully, before a frown creased his brow.

"But… you knew him! You can help me, can't you?"

The Captain gave an over-exaggerated shrug of the shoulders, stubbing out his cigarette on the parapet and throwing the dog-end in the River.

"My expertise only run to Javert in life," he said dismissively, turning and walking back in the direction they had come. "In death… you're on your own, lad."

And with that the Sergeant found himself alone on the bridge, staring down at the ruined pocket watch in his palm.


End file.
